Let Your Voice Be Heard
by Jasper Blood
Summary: A sort of poem/prose drabble type thing I started on another website, based on the real King George VI, but it goes for the movie too. Read and Review please!
1. Judgement Day

Faces. Thousands of them staring up at you, their eyes gleaming, their mouths set in grim lines.

Their expectations are high.

Your hands tremble, your lips quiver like a young child about cry.

You open your mouth to speak, but no sound escapes.

You feel as if you are being choked, the air slowly, agonizingly being taken from you.

The fates have dealt you a cruel turn, but you must continue.

You must say something.

These are your people, they look up to you; all eyes turn to you when disaster strikes.

You are the King. You have all the power in the world at your fingertips.

And yet, you carry such a burden; you endure so much suffering, sometimes it feels as if the world has been thrust upon your shoulders, and you are too weak to bear its weight.

Your breaths come in shallow rasps; your heart pounds like an iron gavel in your chest.

You close your eyes; you feel your heels rocking back and forth.

Around you, the seconds tick past furiously; and yet time seems to have stopped as you try so hard to form a sentence.

You stare so hard at that damned paper, analyzing every word with care and preciseness.

In your mind you scream the words, screaming at God to let your voice be heard.

And yet, nothing happens. Nothing at all.

You look around you, a horrid sense of despair welling within you.

Perhaps, the cause is lost.

You see dear Elizabeth, tears welling in her eyes; it is all too painful for her to see you struggle.

You see the Archbishop, his eyes cold and steely-gray.

You see the people, thousands of them staring up at you, wondering what on earth has happened.

And then…then you see Logue. Amongst the crowd, watching like any other person.

But his eyes are not expectant; he is not examining you like an insect under a microscope.

He nods his head and gestures with his hands vaguely, like Handel readying the orchestra.

You look back down at the writing in your hands, the red slashes blood red on the stark white of the paper.

It isn't a speech.

It's a piece of music.

A piece of music meant to be played slowly and melodically.

It is meant for _you_.

It is _your _song; within it, you are expressing your emotions.

It is the ballad of a troubled monarch.

Though he struggles, he never stops.

Never stops persevering, never gives up hope.

Let that monarch be _you_.

So you bravely look up at the crowd, then back at that speech.

You smile at it fondly, as if it is an old friend.

You open your mouth, and you begin.

Slowly, steadily.

And you let your voice be heard.


	2. The Power in A Word

The ticking of the clock in the corner,

The fretting of a little Margaret, not wanting to go to bed.

Her older sister shushing her, the Queen Mother ushering them off.

And you sit there, in your chair, eyeing a carton of cigarettes as if it were the devil itself,

A yellowed sheet of parchment, the typed script slashed open with the bloody tip of a scarlet pen, lies on the desk before you.

Such power there is, in the written word.

And as you think of this, you realize that you've never pondered such before.

Of course, there was no need for you to ponder such.

It was entirely unnecessary.

All your life, you've never had to depend on yourself, never had to rely on yourself.

All your life, you had the luxury of hiding in the shadows of your brother and father.

You knew from the start that you'd never be King; that you could live out the rest of your life in peace and quiet, indulging yourself in the serenity of private life.

Being made a monarch, that was more a horror than an indulgence, but you simply chuckled at the idea, dismissing it as a nightmare that would never come true.

But alas, even you must now admit that the luxuries you once possessed have now slipped from your clutches and you have, in effect, been thrown to the wolves.

If, those wolves were in fact, a hungry, expectant audience of helpless, hopeless citizens, looking to you for guidance in this… this time of trial.

But they see it in your eyes, and their faces fall, and you feel it deep in the creases of your heart,

That overwhelming sense of despair; that sickening, nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach,

That in this darkest hour, you have been let down by the one you were hoping, praying, and believing would lead you out of the filth, out of the fire and madness, into the light of a new day.

_The shattering of glass, the fury of writhing flames, the shrill howls of your people as they run to their bomb shelters._

_The hollow stomping of jackboots, the gnashing snap of Swastikas in the wind, like serpents._

You can feel it deep within the marrow of your bones, the black cloud that is slowly consuming this earth within which you live, a portion of it, which you rule.

Like a plague, it desecrates and mutilates and murders, leaving civilizations such as yours, once laced with grandeur and power, lifeless shells, shadows of what they once were.

Of what they were always supposed to be.

Rain drops clatter against the windows, the fire flickers in the hearth.

The music echoing softly from the turntable stops with a sudden click.

You are now fully immersed in the dark, heavy silence of so many emotions, you can hardly comprehend what they are.

Greif.

Shame.

Depression.

Wrath.

And only the tiniest squick of confidence, barely hanging by a thread, threatening to be severed completely.

The paper is now clutched tightly within your clutch, your knuckles paling as you exert the force of your feelings into that damned writhing monster, that demon that will forever haunt you, that –

That worthless, lifeless, inanimate piece of parchment.

How could something so useless and meaningless inflict so much torture upon you?

How could you let it defeat you?

You are better.

You know in your soul you are.

It simply took its merry time in allowing you to realize it.

That object which has tormented you for so long,

You will, someday, overtake its power.

You will win back its respect.

You are the King.

It is your subject.

It will vow its allegiance to you.

With a sudden rasp, the fire dies and you are left in darkness, silence.

But now, a new music has begun to echo throughout the room.

Alas, its song is not so happy.

It is a cacophony of man-made machines.

It is the haunting shriek of an air-raid alarm.

With a sigh, as if this is all second-nature to you now,

You stand.

So the Germans have come again.

Will they ever relent?


End file.
